


Against The Odds

by hulklinging



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulklinging/pseuds/hulklinging
Summary: Nott counts, but doesn't count on.Until one day, in some dirty cell, that changes.





	Against The Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at work, totally forgot about it until I found it again. Just a little character study because I love Nott and wanted to see if I could do her justice.
> 
> I know everyone and their mom has written them meeting, but oh well!

Nott is good with numbers.

It started with wanting to be useful, it started because if she was counting things it was something for her hands to do, running clever fingers over shiny things as she catalogued each one. If she could learn to be smart and useful maybe they wouldn’t notice the moments of hesitation, the seconds she stood frozen after an order was given.

(And she counted those seconds too, seeing how high she could get before someone noticed she was missing, before the hands grabbed at her to pull her back into place, before they got tired of waiting and she had to run instead)

If she weren’t a goblin, maybe she could make a living out of counting. Counting other people’s money, their goods, helping it last. Maybe that would be enough for the itch to go away, she lies to herself.

It doesn’t matter. She is a goblin, and no one trusts her to do anything but be just that.

She counts the days by meals, in the prison. It’s a foolish thing to do - whether by forgetfulness or design, they don’t feed her every day. Every meal is tied mentally to a bauble from her collection, the collection she lost when they arrested her, but she’s gone and run out of shinies to remember by the time she’s given a cellmate.

He is tossed in like something dead, but it’s three guards who do it. Three guards is too many for a dead man. He’s bigger than her (most things are) but she eyes the lump of dirty cloth and dirtier skin and thinks she could perhaps take him in a fight. If she needed to.

Probably not a fair fight, but life isn’t fair either, so why should Nott be?

She counts to fifty seven before he looks up at all. His eyes are not goblin eyes, but they are bright and they are clever, as far as human eyes go.

They are also so very tired.

Nott doesn’t move. It is dark in here, dark enough that if she doesn’t move he probably cannot see her. She doesn’t think she wants to be seen by him, not until she’s decided what to do about suddenly sharing this space.

He slowly pushed himself upright, although he doesn’t bother to stand. Instead, he curls up against a wall, closes his eyes, and says something in a language she does not recognize.

“What language is that?” She asks, because before she was Nott the Brave she was the curious, the never-knows-when-to-mind-her-own-business, and the route from her questioning mind to her open mouth has always seemed shorter than most. When she was younger, still trying to play at being a good goblin, she tried to count to five before she spoke. She never managed to remember to do so when it mattered.

He flinches, pulls his arms tighter around himself like he can make himself invisible if he just crushes down every part of him. She watches, knows her eyes will catch the light this time, but she flinches when strangers address her too, so maybe this will be alright.

_“Was ist...?”_

His accent is strong, and the words don’t sound quite right. She tilts her head and takes a step to the side, so that a bit more of the light can touch her.

Nott watches his eyes widen and regrets the movement, scurrying back into the darkest corner before he has a chance to get to his feet.

“No, wait, I am sorry, don’t run!”

The words sound rusty, like forgotten things. But it is not an unpleasant voice.

Nott knows about forgotten things. They’re one of her favourite things to collect. No one will miss them, after all, and she’ll shine new life into them as she runs them through her fingers.

She doesn’t forget things. She hasn’t ever possessed enough to forget anything.

“Not really anywhere to run,” she says from her dark corner.

And he... chuckles. It is a quiet chuckle, and it is exhausted, but it exists, suspended in the heavy air of their cell. It dissipates slowly, like a spell she’s never been given a chance to learn, and maybe it is one because there’s something almost magical about it - laughter, underground.

Nott doesn’t know enough about magic to know for sure what it is, but she does think she knows a threat, and this isn’t one. Maybe. Perhaps.

“I guess you’ve got a point, yes,” says the man. “I do not mean you any harm.”

She thinks _good_ and she thinks _I’d like to see you try_ and she thinks both are right, maybe.

“I’ll make no promises,” she says out loud, which is a stupid thing to say, except that it makes his smile stick around for a moment longer, before he tucks it away into his scarf like he’s used to having to hide it.

They are nothing alike, him a tall, gangly thing and her a goblin. But this is a movement she’s familiar with, knows the shape of.

Maybe, despite all of the odds, they have something in common.

Nott knows odds. They’re another way of looking at numbers, except odds are numbers that can be cheated, tweaked to suit her. She’s not always the best at it, but she has quick hands, and she’s a fast learner. Since leaving home, she’s gotten better and better at playing the odds.

Or had been, until she’d landed herself in here.

The odds of meeting someone important to you in a dingy cell in a nothing town are very low. But they’re ones she can work with, she thinks.

Nott takes a few steps closer to the man, one hand outstretched, because the odds of her living this long are mad enough as it is. Might as well continue the trend.

“I’m Nott. Nott the Brave,” she says, and she even sounds the part.

The man uncurls from his corner, and he doesn’t stand, but he reaches out, takes her hand in his. His hands are wrapped too, like hers but not, and Nott wonders what he’s hiding, wants to count his scars and compare them to her own.

“Caleb.”

Nott likes to count but has never had anyone to count on. She doesn’t know it yet, but this day, half-underground and halfway to too far gone, is the day that changes.


End file.
